The church office was empty when George walked in, save for a familiar dark head poking up from the top of a laptop. "Good afternoon, Lars," the portly older gentlemen said cheerfully.

Lars looked up from his work. "George." His greeting was curt, and far less inviting. 

George frowned a little at the younger man, and went to sit down at his own computer by the phone. "I left a pamphlet on your desk. I was hoping you could speak at that event next week." 

Lars paused. "The refugee support group?" He asked, picking his head up. 

"Your story would be an inspiration for them," George pressed, turning to face him with a smile. 

"Can't. It's at 7pm. You know I can't go out after dark." 

George suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable. "Right." He cleared his throat. "I must have forgotten." He turned away, just as the phone rang. He picked it up. "Our Lady of Sorrows Cathedral, this is George Walters speaking. How can I help you?" 

His breath hitch slightly at the mention of a name he never cared to hear again. His eyes darted to Lars, then quickly back to the phone. "No. We don't have anyone working here by that name. I'm sorry."